


Gone

by SP00K



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotions, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Manga Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SP00K/pseuds/SP00K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 5 of EruMike week: Home
> 
> Erwin's POV

Mike is dead.

And if only it was as simple as that statement seems. Three easy syllables, ten letters, so quick for the mind to understand. But to grasp, to truly comprehend what those words really mean. I can't. No not yet. The full repercussions have yet to set in from those words spoken to me in a hushed tone, as if to truly speak it is to commit to it. 

Mike is gone.

There is no body to bring back. Like so many soldiers. Nothing to bury, nothing to mourn, but a memory. Some are lucky to get a boot, maybe an arm or torso. Just something to throw in a grave. But there is nothing left of Mike. And somehow that makes it worse. Makes it seem less real, like he just wander off and is still out there. It gives this horrid false hope that it was a mistake, it wasn't really Mike that got devoured. That he escaped and is on the run beyond the walls, surviving. That when this war is finally over and humanity has won, I will find him waiting for me at the sea.

But Mike is gone. 

There is no one left to write to, no family to inform. He had a mother, one of the few who was able to grow coffee beans. They were well off. But she died a few years ago. If he had any other family, he didn't speak of them. There is no one to claim his possessions. As per custom in the Survey Corps if a soldier has no one to relieve his things to upon death they were divided up among his squad and any valuable personal effects buried or sold so they could continue their service even beyond the grave. It may sound crass or cold-hearted, but it is what most soldiers wish for. And what would Mike need his things for now…

Mike is gone.

I want to go through Mike’s belongings myself. I can not allow anyone else to look through his room. To rifle with his things. Determine what’s valuable and what’s not. Because if it was Mike’s than it was valuable. At least to me. But when I get to his door I can not go in. I can not open it. Because I know it is empty. I know it will be exactly as he left it this morning. His last morning. Mike won’t be inside.

Mike is gone.

For two hours I stand in front of his door. I still can’t face it. It’s too fresh of a wound to try moving without it splitting open and bleeding all over the floor again. And opening this door would be like running straight into more heart break. I have lost many men, good men, strong men, irreplaceable men. Men worth mourning. But this time I have lost a part of my soul. It cracks and breaks with every breath I take knowing he is not here. That he is not coming back. That I will never see him again. Hold him. Touch him. Feel his warm breath against my lips or rough beard scratch my skin. 

Mike is gone. 

It takes another hour before my hand reaches out to open the door. It’s not locked. It’s never locked. My hand shakes, rattling the metal handle against the wood grain. How many times did I tell him to lock the door. The goddamn door. As if it matters now. My chest feels tight, my ears are ringing. But I push through and the door opens to the darkened interior. Mike’s home.

No, Mike is gone.

But Mike’s presence still lingers in the air. As I walk inside I smell him all around me. It is cruel. It’s fucking cruel. I can’t take a step without being flooded by memories. That hideous sheepskin rug he bought because he said it reminded him of the farm he grew up on. The dent I put in the wall after my first expedition as Commander, the kitchen usually so full of smells and sounds of cooking. Mike loved cooking, and he was so good at it. He could have had a successful and happy life as a chef. But he followed me here, straight to his death. The ache weighs heavy on my heart. The guilt. I should have been there, I could have stopped it. I could have saved him. But it doesn't matter now. 

Mike is gone.

I want to remember, but I also want to forget. I feel like I am drifting through some lucid nightmare, staggering my way to his bedroom. Mike’s bedroom. Our bedroom. The memories are keen here, lazy mornings, frantic nights, quick romps during lunch. I sit at the edge of the bed. Mike’s bed. Our bed. I sit and stare at the planks of hardwood on the floor. He didn't make the bed. Mike never makes the goddamn bed. And I wasn't here to do it for him. I wasn't here last night. I wasn't here this morning. I wasn't here for his last hours. Too much to do, too much stress about the going beyond the walls, too many final details to flesh out. Pathetic excuses. I didn't come to him last night like I usually do. It’s shit - it’s all bullshit. I should have been here. But how would I have known. We became complacent in our abilities, having survived so long already. I thought Mike infallible. My chest tightens unbearably as regret pours over me. Before I know it I am crying. I cry for the lost time, the missing words, the emptiness that fills me.

Mike is gone.

I look around the bedroom and try to take stock of Mike’s things. His uniform is much too big for anyone left in the Corps. I could probably get into his formal jacket, but the everyday uniform’s arms are too long. His extra maneuver gear belts can be used with some tightening, the boots can maybe go to Jean who has big feet. I calculate his extra sets of blades, cans of gas, leather oil, coats, packs, medical supplies - all the standard soldier garb. Mike was always so resourceful, he would want every scrap to be put to use. I pile things up to be taken away, trying to have a practical approach. But as I rummage in his favorite pack, a worn leather journal falls into my lap. A journal I gave him years ago for some occasion I can’t even remember. Dark, soft leather and thick cream pages and a perfect size to carry with at all times. It has obviously been used well. Tentatively I finger the cover now discolored from wear and supple to the touch. I hesitate over privacy for a moment, knowing how well loved this journal was. I hope it’s because I gave it to him. Mike would wake frantically in the night and grab this trusty notebook and scribble things down in the dark, or steal away in some corner like he was divulging secrets onto the paper. I thumb the tattered edges, fraying and smudged and swollen with ink. I wonder why he left it behind today. But I can’t ask him now.

Mike is gone.

Mike was a man of few words, but deep thought and this journal is a testament of that. He ran out of pages long ago and seems to have taken to jotting things in the margins of his other writings, filling every scrap of available space front and back. Crude doodles and recipe ideas and nightmares he had blot the cream pages in a confusing jumble of blacks and fading greys. Lists and lines in every direction with no semblance of order, but I can read the chaos as easily as if it were printed from a press. I marvel at the beauty of Mike’s mind, the vivid detail in which he chronicled his surrounding and experiences, the meanderings flowing off the page like a vivid memory. His dreams for the end of the war, sketches of me sleeping, a few dried herbs pressed to a page he was going to research about, ideas for new titan strategies, random lists of words, aspirations, prayer, rants, lines furiously scratched out - page after page of the important things in Mike’s life. And then my heart stops. I catch a page towards the back that, unlike the rest of the journal, is neat and precise and not muddled with other ramblings. It has been deliberately left untouched, it seems, by other thoughts and looks like a moment of clarity in the wake of insanity. I read it slowly, not really comprehending the first time, and then read it again and again and again until my vision blurs from the tears that fall uninhibited and I can no longer visibly see the words. Mike was going to marry me. He planned the whole thing out, how he would do it, when, where and what he would say. When the war was over, it’s written, when I was free to give my heart to him. No wedding, just a quiet celebration between the two of us, plain silver rings and a cottage by the sea. At the end of the page it reads: _I want to be like children again, playing and loving, back when Erwin was all mine and I was all his, that is why I fight this war._ It all sounds perfect and so much like Mike, I weep for what could have been and all that we lost. 

Mike is gone.

I don’t know how long I clutch onto that journal and bury myself into Mike’s bed. Our bed. Crying into the pillows as the scent of my best friend surrounds me like so much regret and longing. I grieve until there is nothing left, until I am as empty as my soul feels. And then I am just hollow and exhausted. The sun went down hours ago and I have so much to do, but I can’t get up. After awhile I hear footsteps, quiet and searching they stop at the bedroom. I don’t care to look up, I don’t care to put on a brave face. I just don’t care anymore. 

“Erwin?”

Levi calls, voice soft but rough with some lingering emotion I don’t bother to read into.

“Erwin…”

“Mike is dead, Levi.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't just write smut...


End file.
